


learn to expect the unexpected

by clayisforgirls



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:13:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"while that isn't usual for you, it's not the end of the world, as bad as it might seem at the time"</p><p>Takes places after Roger's loss to Canas at Indian Wells in 2007. Originally posted in July 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	learn to expect the unexpected

It doesn't start the way he thought it would. He'd always thought it would start with his back pressed almost painfully against metal lockers, a warm, heavy weight against his front pinning him down, hands everywhere, in his hair, touching every bare piece of skin they could, the night ending with them tangled together in bed, sticking to each other with flushed skin and bright eyes.

Instead, it starts with a loss. A loss that he - and the rest of the tour - had never imagined. A loss that's the end of the streak, a record he was so close to equalling, or if he'd believed everyone else, breaking. Few people are around, but the ones that are can't even look at him, and he can't even think of a moment where he's felt more alone, always having someone around, whether it was his parents, Mirka, Tony or even one of his fellow players. Now there's just him.

There's only one thing he can do, and that's do what he always does. Shower, change, answer a million scathing questions from the press. The routine's the same. It's just the tune that's changed, and he knows exactly what the press can be like. Vindictive, malicious, downright rude at times but he's been through it all before. Just not for a while, and he hopes he remembers how to do it.

Seven hours pass in a blur, the vague recollection of Mirka and him coming back to the hotel, a goodnight kiss and her slipping into bed, and yet he's still on the couch in their suite. His body's tired, muscles with that feint ache that usually doesn't happen until the next morning, but his brain's more than awake, thoughts running through his mind that he can't seem to switch off.

The hotel bar seems like the best idea he's had all day, and so he slips out, door clicking quietly behind him without the thought of leaving a note, even without the thought of putting shoes on which he realises when he's halfway down the hallway, though his body won't let him go back, glad most normal people are asleep and the only people that would be up at this hour are the people who have seen him looking far worse than this.

It's a surprise that the bar isn't empty, a few couples at tables, talking over the soft music, just loud enough to be heard by their partner except for the occasional laugh. He keeps his head low, trying to blend into the monotone decorating in his grey sweatpants and old t-shirt and hopes that it works long enough to get a drink, maybe two, and slouch in a corner.

He thinks that perhaps it would have had he not walked into a chair, legs screeching against the polished floor and he's about to run, not wanting to be the centre of attention, when someone, a concerned someone, says his name.

"Roger? You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost," the voice says, hint of a joke to it and he manages a wry smile, about to tell the voice that no, he's fine, he just wants to be alone when he's pulled into the side booth by his wrist, a slight yelp coming out of his mouth and he really hopes no one heard that. He doesn't want a reputation of sounding like a girl, not after today when he couldn't even win a set against someone ranked so far below him he hadn't even begun to count.

"Drink," he hears, as a glass is placed in front of him, filled with something that smells of alcohol, and he does, tipping it back, letting the alcohol burn his throat, but it's a good burn, a dull burn that doesn't fade straight away and there's a clink as the glass goes back on the table, fingers shaking.

"I didn't mean the whole thing," and he knows that voice, the one that whispered in his ear three years in a row at Wimbledon, last year in New York, a voice that's shakily congratulated him, trying to hold it together as he'd teased and joked his way through everything that followed. "C'mon Rog, you have to talk sometime. I'll even buy you another one."

A smile plays on his lips, the idea of free alcohol right now too much for him and he nods, gesturing for the same again, because whatever Andy was drinking, it was good. Maybe better than good, it ‘hit the spot', he thinks the phrase is, heard so many native English speakers use it that it has to be right.

"I would like that," he says softly, and wordlessly Andy slips out of his seat and heads over to the bar, natural charm making the bartender laugh as he prepares the matching drinks. It's not fair, he thinks, that someone like Andy can take everything in his stride, can take the wins with the losses mostly, and yet for him, it almost seems as though it's the end of the world.

A look back from Andy and he quickly darts his attention to something else, the couple making out across the room from him, supposedly hidden in a dark corner but he'd swear it was Robredo and Ferrer, and when he can't look anymore because he can't tell if his mind is playing tricks on him, he pushes the glass on the table from one hand to the other. Something he used to do when he was a child, remembers his mother chastising him for playing with his drinks, and the smug look from her when it spilt.

There's nothing in this glass though, not even when it falls and he manages to catch it before it hits the ground, reflexes not yet dulled by the alcohol, just a nice, warm, comforting buzz at the back of his brain, and when he's finished that second drink that's being brought to him right now, he's sure the buzz will have spread throughout his whole body.

"One drink. As promised. Now spill."

Scrunch of his eyes as he gulps the drink, and it seems stronger than the last, doesn't know what Andy's put in it but it feels good.

"You seem to be the only person in the world that hasn't heard yet," he mumbles into his drink, almost finished and he wonders where it all went because it doesn't seem like he drank it, but maybe he did, warmth spreading into the furthest parts of his body, head suddenly heavy.

"The only thing I've heard about you recently," Andy says, after a pause, taking a sip of his drink before continuing and maybe that's why he doesn't have any drink left, he's been gulping it, "is that you lost. And while that isn't usual for you, it's not the end of the world, as bad as it might seem at the time."

"Maybe not for you," and even he can't believe his own voice, laced with bitterness and instantly he regrets saying it because it's not who he is, it's not even who he is with alcohol. One look at Andy and he knows the American isn't impressed with what he just said, white fingers pressing into the glass of the table, bitten lip between his teeth and just taking a moment to calm himself down because it's the stillest he's ever seen Andy.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-" except he's cut off before he can even finish the apology, glass taken from between his hands and placed to the side and there's a hand over his own, stilling it to keep him from fiddling and he's almost certain that's the first time Andy Roddick has stopped anyone from doing that, because he knows that Andy wouldn't be able to keep still if someone paid him to.

"Forget it. It happens sometimes." The tone of Andy's voice is enough to stop him from saying anything else and there's something that's close to understanding in it, the best thing he's heard all day because with everyone else there's been pity, disappointment, failure, even from the other players. But then Andy's always been different, he's seen the mood swings he goes through, been a witness to a few after his matches. Doesn't think the American is close to being stable but it's nothing he'd ever say to his face.

Especially not now, to the one person that's treating him normally.

"Personally," Andy starts after several minutes of silence, Roger just watching the American take sips of his drink, tapping his fingers on the rim, "I like to blow all my winnings in the casino. You know, after a loss."

The dorky smile suits Andy well and Roger can't help but smile back, somehow totally infectious as Andy offers him the rest of his drink. Which he takes gratefully, and though it's gone in under five seconds it doesn't seem like quite enough. Not yet, anyway, and hopes that Andy will offer him another.

He does, and two drinks each later and Andy hasn't said another word to him, just sat back and offered more alcohol when needed and Roger hadn't even thought about declining. He'd never have expected Andy to be like this, not with him, not after humiliating him time and time again on court and he wonders if Andy's like this with everyone, or if it's just him, or if it's some new part of his personality that Connors had implemented into him, just like the rest of his game now. Half a drink later and he definitely decides that isn't the case, because Connors was never like that from what he remembers.

No, this is definitely all Andy, the endearing supporting glances and nervous smiles couldn't belong to anyone but him, and he's glad he finally gets to see the smile outside of pretending that he's okay with losing. Knows that smile almost too well and it's always fake, never quite reaching his eyes. This one does, sort of anyway, more understanding and concern but it's definitely there.

"Roger?" the American says, another two drinks later and he doesn't remember Andy having anymore but he probably did; has seen Andy drink before and more often than not someone is helping him back to his hotel room. "You think you've had enough?"

He shakes his head, placing the glass on the table with a steady hand but it still tips, Andy catching it before it spills and Roger tries to form the words but it doesn't quite work. Tongue feels too big, brain heavy and when he manages to meet Andy's eyes, he's certain that he's moving just to be spiteful as he can't quite focus on one thing.

"Yeah, you've had enough," and he watches Andy shake his head, blinking to try and steady the images as Andy gets up and helps him out of the booth. He's not used to the alcohol and as he stands the room spins, Andy catching him before he completely embarrasses himself, and though he can't quite manage words at his moment he tries to give Andy a smile. It seems to have worked, because Andy smiles back, leaving some money on the table before they take baby steps out of the bar, Andy the only thing keeping him upright otherwise he's sure he'd be sprawled out on the floor, a million light bulbs in his face at once, the resulting photos all over the news tomorrow and he can see the headlines now.

His socks slip on the marble floor, and he hears Andy curse as he's pulled upright again, never expecting the American to care this much if he makes a fool of himself and he's sure he says that out loud unless Andy can read minds.

"Never expected you to get this drunk on only four drink, Feds. I'll remember you can't hold your alcohol for our next match," he says as he smiles, a real smile that lights up his eyes as they crinkle at the corners. Though the lighting in the hotel makes his skin pasty and the dark circles under his eyes seem to be ever present, Roger thinks it's the most beautiful he's ever seen Andy Roddick, after their matches he's nothing even close.

"Beautiful," he half slurs as they step into the elevator and it gets Andy's attention as he hits a button, eyes meeting for the briefest of seconds before he's clinging to the railing as it starts moving, the numbers a blur and he realises that he hasn't told Andy what floor he's on, although he doesn't want to see Mirka like this so maybe it's best he doesn't know. Isn't sure what she'll say, or maybe she'll just give him a disapproving look as she gets him a glass of water and it's something he could really do without, this day bad enough already.

Andy escorts him from the elevator and for all he knows they could be on his floor, every corridor of every hotel exactly the same and he can't read the numbers clearly, thinks he sees a ‘301' on the first door but it might be an eight rather than a three. And a seven rather than a one. It's not as slippery here, one hand balancing him on the wall, Andy's arm around his waist as they walk slowly together, not saying a word; the only sound is Andy's footsteps on the carpet and the muffled televisions he can hear through the closed doors.

Roger's leaning against the wall with his eyes shut as Andy unlocks his room door, taking three attempts before he finally manages to open it and he helps Roger to the bed. It's the same as his own, same room, same ugly wallpaper and cream carpet, same light switch that he reaches blindly for, almost knocking the lamp he'd forgotten was there off the side table and Andy's by his side in an instant, hand on his wrist, the light in the room slowly dimming.

And then somehow he's pulling Andy towards him, fingers clenched in the worn cotton of Andy's t-shirt and he's inches away from him, warm breath tickling his neck as he watches Andy's eyes glaze with lust. Or that could be from the alcohol, he isn't quite sure, but they're no longer hazel; instead they're closer to chocolate brown, flecks of green still visible. It's Andy who pauses as Roger leans closer, pulling back a little, widening the gap before Roger finds his wrist suddenly free, Andy on the bed next to him.

"You're going to regret this in the morning, Feds," Andy says softly, barely loud enough for him to hear, "because you've never even looked at me twice when you've been sober."

"Have too," he mumbles into his t-shirt, currently stuck as he tries and fails to pull it over his head and then Andy's there, freeing it from his too-big nose and it slips off easily, discarded somewhere on the floor before he looks at Andy again, slightly wobbly but it's so close, and without realising he's stroking Andy's cheek, enjoying the stubble beneath his fingers. "You're Andy Roddick."

"And you're drunk," Andy replies, shaking his head, the grin on his face belying his disappointment in Roger and Roger loves that about him, the respect he has even though he knows that Roger isn't perfect, and Andy's the only one that seems to understand that. "A cute drunk, but still dru-"

Three inches are closed between them and Andy's lips are on his. Sort of anyway, his judgement isn't the best right now but Andy corrects that, shifts a little to the left and it's perfect, one hand clutching bed sheets, the other reaching out for Andy and finally he grasps cotton, Andy's hand in his hair, running his fingers through curls. Andy's softer than he expected, more gentle with him, had expected more tongue and teeth but if he'd learnt anything today it's that what he - and the rest of the world - expects doesn't always happen. And maybe that's not a bad thing as Andy's fingers trail across his chest, finally resting on his hip, bringing them ever closer until he's on his back, legs tangled with Andy's as the American half rests on him, only breaking to breathe.

"Didn't expect it to happen like this," he manages to say without the hint of a slur and he's proud of himself until he gets a vaguely confused face from Andy, wondering if he spoke in German or French when Andy kisses him again, murmuring against his lips.

"Things don't always happen exactly as you plan them, Rog. But that's the fun in life, you know?"

There's no chance to reply, there's the fuzzywarm feeling that comes with the alcohol relaxing his muscles now the room's stopped spinning, the one he's more fond of than he remembers, and then there's Andy. Andy who's kissing him again and right now, he doesn't care if the end to this evening has been even stranger than the day before it, because it's what he's wanted for months, or in his honest moments, years.

It might not be Roger's perfect moment. Instead of sweat soaked cotton and damp skin it's just them and Roger's four drinks in a nameless hotel room, can taste the alcohol on his breath and hopes Andy doesn't mind; his words are slurred but Andy still understands and that's good enough for him. After all, it's almost perfect because it's still them, skin pressed together as Andy takes his shirt off and he tastes just like Roger always knew he would, just like the coffee he drinks too much of despite the alcohol he's had at the bar.

And in the end, that's all Roger really needs. Though it might have been one of the worst days of his life, the almost perfect ending makes up for it.


End file.
